


Snap

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [4]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A+ Ravager Parenting, M/M, the Awful Space Dads teach their pet Terran how to gamble, tumblr prompt fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No Ravager worth his salt doesn't know how to gamble. Ergo, it's high time Peter had a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap

**Author's Note:**

> **Part of the single-word prompt-bingo over on my tumblr (write-like-an-american!).**
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> **Prompt: Snap (Teen +)**
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> ****
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> **There were so many directions I could have taken this prompt. So of course I chose the weird obscure-ish one.**
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> ****

“So, how do we play again?” 

Peter, distracted from his slow and meticulous shuffle, proceeds to fumble cards all over the table. 

And an unamused Kraglin. And an even less amused Yondu, who really has better things to be doing right now. But the kid’s been begging them for a game ever since Morlug gave him the pack, in a futile effort to keep him from getting himself into trouble while she was on Terran-watching duty. So far, all Morlug’s genius has achieved is to add new nagging munition to Peter’s artillery – as well as sparking off a juvenile interest in gambling that’s liable to see the mouthy fifteen-year-old lynched before the end of the month. Honestly. If you’re the size of a prepubescent-Kronan, challenging a fully-grown high-gravity dweller to a high-stakes game over their weekly pudding ration isn’t the wisest idea. Especially when you win. 

As for Morlug… Yondu’ll think up a suitable punishment for her later. 

For now, he picks five cards off his lap, nails clicking on the thin leaves. They’re holotech: three-dimensional images encapsulated between sandwiched sheets of glass. This deck’s customizable to up to nine suits. Each designates a player. From then on, the game’s usually played similar to chess; the holo-image can be altered to reflect the suit of the winning hand, until the entire pack’s homogenized. Simple. Something you’d find at the kiddie-table at the casino. Perfect for Peter – right? 

Nope. Of course, the Terran has to incorporate his precious earth-games. And with nine suits, each containing a selection of pictures that Peter’s ripped off the Xandarian infonet – Nova Prime, a couple of Denarian-class goons, and the mugshots of the Ravager High Command crew from the last time they’d been arrested – Peter has a fine snap-game in the making. 

So he thinks. 

Yondu allows his boredom full reign over his features. It’s enough to keep Peter distracted while only four of the cards are returned to the pile. 

Opposite, Kraglin has a certain stolidness about his sneer that suggests he’s already sleeved a couple. Lad always overdoes the poker-face. Yondu shows him what a real one looks like; he pockets another – this Horuz’s ugly mug, gurning at the cameraman through his grizzly beard like he’s sizing him up for a bite – while Peter’s fishing for those that’ve skidded under the table. 

“It’s _snap_ ,” says Peter, a little breathless. “It’s easy.” He bounces up with Saal, Kraglin and Jax clutched victoriously in his fist. Their miniatures lour at Yondu as they’re dropped onto the messy stack. He grabs the Kraglin card before Peter can restart the shuffle, and tilts it in and out of the dim red light, ginning at the grouchy teenager immortalized in the glass. 

“Heck, you’ve hardly got stubble. How old are ya here?” 

“I could say the same for you, boss.” Kraglin holds up a Yondu-card. The traitor. 

Yondu, deciding that’s as good an offering as any, snatches it and adds it to the collection that’s accumulating at his end of the table. 

“No!” Peter scoots his chair back. His cheeks are the color of a sock that’s been left in the red leather-washing pile. He crosses to Yondu’s side and surveys his OO-Gauge fortress of holocards with flustered dismay. “No, this isn’t how you play – you don’t just _stockpile_ , you gotta let me _deal_ …” 

He regrets it when Yondu starts stealing cards off his pile instead. 

Peter grabs Yondu’s cuff. Three more cards spill out, and Peter’s expression twists from irritated to horrified. “You were going to cheat!” 

Yondu shrugs. Shoves another card into the lining of his coat and fends off Peter’s scrabbling fingers with an open-palmed smack to the back of the head. 

“Ravager,” he says. Like it’s obvious. 

At this age, Peter’s suffered that blow enough that it barely registers; he feints right, and Yondu, hampered by still being sat on his ass, twists too slow to dodge as Peter darts in and pinches the card right out of his collar. Damn. Boy’s getting faster. And braver. Coupla years back, he’d never’ve dared a move that bold – or anything that’d put him in kicking range. 

Yondu scowls at him. He’s gratified to see the Terran’s jubilation wither. Oh yeah. Boy might be growing, but he’s yet to work out a defense against _arrows._ Peter can posture all he wants; Yondu’s gonna be pushing him round for years yet. 

So long as the damn brat don’t wind up _taller than him…_

“Are you seriously telling me that you’ve never played an honest card game?” Peter asks, twizzling the card between his fingers like a poker chip. He manages to make three passes before it slips over his knuckles. Kraglin snatches it out the air, and holds it high, out of his reach, while he addresses his words to Yondu – 

“Aw, c’mon, sir. Let’s play already.” 

Yondu creaks back on his chair. “I dunno. Looks like you’re having more fun teasing him.” 

“Yeah…” Kraglin makes a one-shouldered shrug, waggling the card above Peter’s nose and timing his raises to the Terran’s pathetic bunny-hops. He manages to maintain his lethargic expression of ennui throughout. “But we been teasing him for years. Novelty’s starting to wear.” 

He has a point. Yondu considers. Then takes his boots off the table and lets his chair crash down onto four legs. 

“Alright kid. No more messing. We play.” Peter cheers, and Kraglin lets him pluck the card from his fingertips like a low-hanging fruit. “But,” says Yondu, silencing him with an upheld hand, “we do this proper-like. Bout time you learnt how to bet for real.” 

Peter’s smile falters. “With units?” 

His disappointment is palpable – and for good reason. Peter’s never gotten over his tourist phase: a character flaw unassisted by Yondu’s influence, who can’t walk past a single market stall without lifting enough trite tat to stuff the hold of a shuttle-class cargo hauler. But at least he doesn’t _pay_ for it. As a result, now that Yondu’s making him handle his own accounts Peter is perpetually strapped for cash. Any gamble involving units is liable to see him bankrupt. 

Yondu delivers him from insolvency with a lenient sigh. “Alright. Let’s play for favors. What d’you want from me?” 

That’s a big question. Peter ponders to what parameters his answer ought to be confined, in order for optimum success. Can’t ask for anything stupid - like for Yondu to take him home. But he can ask for… 

“An M-ship!” 

Surprisingly, the captain nods. “Right. That’s your top one. Now pick a coupla little things – get-out-of-bog-scrubbing-free-cards, and the like.” 

Eventually, they settle. Peter’s favor for a triple-win streak is to be relieved from his usual punishment detail of fumigating the bathrooms after Horuz’s been through, the next time Yondu finds him discipline-worthy. If he gets five in a row, his winnings escalate to a pay-rise. Ten victories will earn him the coveted M-ship, to call his very own. 

Or to call after some dumb Terran floozie, knowing him. Yondu snorts and leans forwards. “Alright. My turn…” 

He chooses, in ascending order: ‘Peter doesn’t get himself almost-killed for three whole days’ (to which Peter rolls his eyes), ‘Kraglin doesn’t leave visible hickeys for a month’ (to which Kraglin sinks in his seat and Peter makes a grossed-out groan) and, daringly, ‘no music for a year’. Peter looks peaky at the prospect. But when Yondu inquires if he’d like to wuss out like the wimp he is, adamantly shakes his head. 

Then it’s Kraglin’s turn. He’s spent the duration of Yondu and Peter’s pitches rubbing his fuzzy upper lip and staring contemplative holes into the table. 

“C’mon,” Yondu prompts, nudging his thigh. “Anything ya want. From me or the boy.” 

Kraglin looks up. And – oh _shit_. That’s… not a reassuring expression. 

“Peter doesn’t blast music for three days; you let me handle a coupla jobs by myself, start to finish, organisation, execution, auction, the lot. And you wear lingerie. For twenty-four hours.” 

“Hey!” Peter protests. “So if _either_ of you wins, I gotta turn off my Walkman? That’s not fair –“ 

Yondu’s busy processing that last one. “No,” he says, hoarse. Kraglin’s eyebrows pinch in faux-submission. 

“I’ll pick something else sir, if that’s too much for ya –“ 

Oh, he did _not_. 

Yondu wordlessly grabs the deck from Peter, and starts to shuffle. 

Light glances and shatters off the glittering shards. He’d been hoping he’d only have to beat Peter – because _no way_ is he giving that brat his own M-ship; not for another decade yet. In fact, he expected Kraglin to follow his lead and select a more harmonious top winning – Peter finding some other poor gits to bother for a month, or the like. Not _this._

This ain’t something he’s ever done. In fact, it’s not something he’s ever had any real desire to do – because while lace looks damn fine on the ladies, he doubts he’ll do it justice. What’s Kraglin thinking? Yondu’s as manly as they come. If he likes to get fucked by his first mate once in a blue moon (month, fortnight, week, whatever), it don’t change that fact; and anyone who suggests otherwise can see if their opinions alter after taking an arrow to the eye. 

But he’s been given a challenge. One which he’s got no _real_ reason to refuse. All this does is amplify his determination to beat the both of them into the ground. 

“Alright boy,” he says, grin a glinting grit of jagged tooth and metal. “Show us what we’re doing.” 

________________________________________ 

It’s a bit more complex than Peter’s used to, what with the nine suits and all – which are recognizable by the different colors on their front-displays, but indistinct from the back. Kraglin disables the assimilation function, so they wind up with nine sets of each frozen character scattered throughout the deck. From then on, it’s game time. 

Everyone’s an enemy. Cards are to be protected at the expense of fingers and non-vital organs, and if anyone dares peek at their own hand, they’ll be strung up by the other two before the impressions can sink into their brains. No more talking, except for the obligatory exclamation – 

“Snap!” 

“That don’t count,” Yondu complains, prising his hand from under Peter’s. “I hit it first.” 

“But you didn’t say the thing! You gotta say the thing!” 

Yondu’s glower becomes dangerous. “You makin’ up rules, boy?” 

Kraglin lays another card while Peter’s spitting denials. Then smacks it immediately. “Snap! Three-of-a-kind!” 

Peter breaks from his sneering match with Yondu to give Kraglin an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “That’s a double point!” Then he remembers what Kraglin’s first three wins will earn him, and pales. “Uh, let’s play some more. C’mon. Next one’s mine!” 

Next one’s not. 

Peter relaxes though, once Kraglin hits five wins. Yondu doesn’t. 

Fuck. So, either he lets Kraglin handle his own job – which yeah, he _could_ do; but the lad’s still lacking a fair bit of learning when it comes to dealing with Ravager clients; and, skills as first mate aside, put him at the head of more than twenty men and he’ll flap about like a stick insect on speed more than he’ll actually get shit done. 

Or he lets him win. 

Yondu spares the Hraxian a sideways squint, and notes the smile playing around the corner of his mouth. That canny little shit. He’s _planned_ this. 

As for Peter: now his precious music-box is safe, the boy weighs up his options. Which does he want to see more? Kraglin given a bit more authority – boring. He’ll only use it as an excuse to push Peter about more. Or Yondu humiliated…? 

________________________________________ 

Peter’s not even trying anymore. They’re ganging up on him. Fuck, weren’t this supposed to go the other way round? 

Yondu cusses internally and keeps his eyes fixed on the cards. One-two-three. One-two-three. They lay around the circle, left to right (which Peter insists is the ‘correct’ way), faster and faster, flinging their cards at the heap and scarcely pausing to check them for repetition before shunting the next forwards. Kraglin’s on nine wins. So far Yondu’s only bagged five. But even the appeal of a month where he doesn’t have to suffer under woolly scarves can’t erase the tension in his shoulders, as the players peel off another glassy trio. 

Peter, having secured his stint of bog-free peace, is happy to play for Kraglin’s victory. His hand hovers perpetually out of the danger zone. But it’s his final card – an eerie, smiling likeness of Nova Prime – which completes the game. 

Yondu and Kraglin’s hands hit the deck in perfect synchrony. However, only one of them remembers to say ‘snap’. 

________________________________________ 

After a week, Kraglin decides that Yondu must’ve ‘forgotten’ – which means that Yondu’s purposefully put it to the back of his mind so he’ll have an excuse when Kraglin calls him out. 

If Kraglin calls him out. 

Because boss’s been planetside all day. Kraglin ain’t got no clue what kinda mood he’s gonna be in when he’s back, and he doesn’t fancy taking over Peter’s abandoned scrubs shift. 

He’s expecting grumbles and gripes about the price of novelties in today’s market. He’s expecting boastful guff about how Yondu’s swindled a pack of Hordesmen out of their authentic Flengoffan diamonds by telling them that they’re forgeries, repeatedly and at varying volumes, until they started to believe it. 

He’s not expecting Yondu to be moodily shifting about his chair and tugging on the seams of his pants. “This crap’s _itchier_ than I thought it’d be,” he mutters when Kraglin halts behind him, and the first mate has to duck his chin to his chest to hide his sudden flush. 

________________________________________

Kraglin trails him to his cabin. Then has to jerk back to avoid being smacked by Yondu’s implant when the captain spins in the doorway, barring his entrance. 

“Sir?” 

“Who said you was comin’ in?” 

Kraglin’s smirk is a little nervous. “But our bet –“ 

“Said I had to wear it all day.” Yondu’s looking… well, mischievous isn’t quite the word for it. Wicked? Wickeder than usual? It’s damn good on him, whatever it is – but when Kraglin makes to step into his personal space and test his hypothesis that a kiss behind the ear will have the expression melting, Yondu flicks the lock. The inch between them is abruptly filled with blast-proof steel. “Never specified I had to show it ya!” Yondu calls through the door. 

Kraglin, rubbing his scraped nose, sighs. 

Jackass.

**Author's Note:**

> **I don't know how this mutated from 'Ravagers teaching Peter to gamble + Peter teaching Ravager's snap' to 'Yondu wearing lingerie', but I'm very glad it did.**


End file.
